


Not Quite Happily Ever After: Thirteen Times Aria Lied

by speakpirate



Series: Thirteen Things [4]
Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Background Emison, Ezria Isn't A Love Story, F/M, Gen, Jaria, Unhappy marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 05:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10690791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speakpirate/pseuds/speakpirate
Summary: As she faces the altar, as the minister goes through the ceremony and Ezra recites his vows, the line that keeps running through her head over and over is from Jane Eyre.“Reader, I married him."Even as she repeats the words that take Ezra Fitz as her husband, she pauses to wonder who she’s writing this story for.She banishes that line of thought aggressively. It’s nothing. Unimportant. Jitters.





	Not Quite Happily Ever After: Thirteen Times Aria Lied

**Author's Note:**

> _When it comes to fans of Ezria, I think Heather Hogan said it best: "I wish you understood that I am on your side. Not on Ezra’s side. Not on Ezra and Aria’s side. YOUR side, as women who are growing up/have grown up in this pervasive rape culture, I am writing for you."_
> 
> _This is a story about what I think Aria's future would be like if she goes ahead and marries Ezra. Large parts of it are not especially happy, because I do not see Ezria as a happy ending. Not by a long shot._

I.

Aria comes through the door with her arms full of dry cleaning. “I picked up three of your shirts,” she announces, kissing Ezra on the cheek. “And my dress for the rehearsal dinner.”

“Oh, right,” Ezra says. “That’s this weekend?”

Aria laughs at his forgetfulness. “It’s been on the calendar for months, I have a giant purple ball gown taking up half my closet, and we all went out to that lesbian bar for the joint bachelorette party. Of course it’s this weekend!”

“The thing is, I have to go to New York. For the book.”

“There’s nothing you can do there that you couldn’t do here,” she tells him. “I used to work in publishing, remember?”

“I have to go to New York,” he insists. “You can come with me if you want.”

“I’m not going to New York, and neither are you. The wedding is in two days! Is this because you’re not a groomsman?” 

“She asked Toby and Caleb,” he argues, for the tenth time, grilling himself a steak while Aria forages through the fridge for a salad. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’m just pointing out that it’s rude. This is Alison we’re talking about. It’s a deliberate slight.”

“Emily and Toby grew up next door to each other,” Aria explains. Also for the tenth time. “And Caleb set up their whole wedding website for free. It’s not a slight. They invited you. The invitation is addressed to both of us.”

“Well, I don’t want to sit there and watch you walk down the aisle on your ex-boyfriend’s arm.”

“Fine, I’ll switch! Jason can walk with Spencer.”

“It’s the principle, Aria,” he says, in full martyr mode. “I’m obviously not a significant part of their lives or their wedding. They won’t care if I’m there or not. Unless Ali throws a fit over an extra roast chicken entree.”

“That’s not the point,” Aria pleads. “I care whether or not you’re there. My best friends are getting married! I want us to go and dance and have a good time.”

“You’re a grown woman,” he says, coldly. “This isn’t middle school. They’re your friends, but I’m your partner. You should be on my side.”

“Since when are there sides here?”

“I’m not going. I have to be in New York.”

“Fine,” she says, resignedly. Knowing she’ll have to spend most of the next two days answering questions about his absence.

He brightens immediately, gives her a peck on the forehead. “Great,” he says. “I’ll call you from the hotel.”

She’s silent as she chops up a tomato.

“You’re not mad, are you?” Ezra asks.

She manages a weak smile. “No,” she replies. “Of course not.”

\-------------------------------------------

II.

Hanna has been drinking at the Radley bar since early afternoon. She’s sloppy drunk, the kind of wasted that always registered as way too dangerous back when lowering your guard for two seconds might be the difference between hearing the footsteps behind you or being grabbed off the street. Getting hit by an out of control car or making it to the curb. It could be that Hanna is making progress. Or she could be drowning her sorrows in fruity umbrella drinks. Her sorrows being that she and Caleb broke up last month. A piece of information she’s only just chosen to share.

“I just looked at him one day, and I wasn’t in love with him anymore. I don’t know how it happened,” Hanna explains, sounding morose.

“Is there someone else?” Aria asks. “Jordan? Or Lucas?”

Hanna doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “Jordan was the same thing. He was amazing, but he - he couldn’t hold my interest, you know? It kept sliding off.”

“And onto Caleb,” Aria reminds her.

“Right!” Hanna exclaims. “And it’s like, if _Caleb_ isn’t the right guy for me - maybe there isn’t one. Maybe there’s no right guy.”

Aria frowns and puts a hand on Hanna’s arm. “That’s not true. Hanna, you’re amazing. You’ll find someone.”

“The world is full of someones,” Hanna grouses. “But how do you know which one is the one someone who’s your one?”

“Huh?”

“How did you know?” Hanna asks, her eyes struggling to focus. “How did you know about Ezra?”

Aria can feel her stomach churning in a weird way that she hopes is due to the alcohol. 

“I just knew, I guess.”

“But you didn’t,” Hanna insists. “You broke up a bunch of times.”

The queasy feeling gets stronger. She stirs her drink. “If it’s right, you find your way back to each other.”

“So you’re sure,” Hanna says. “Absolutely, no doubts ever at all?”

Aria looks at her engagement ring. She thinks about Ezra. He’s her happy ending. It’s as simple as that. There are no fairy stories where the prince battles through a thicket of thorns only to have the princess decide she’s having second thoughts. That she might prefer to have a little time alone.

“Yes,” she hears herself say. “He’s the one.”

\-------------------------------------------------

III.

Every single time she asks him to help with the wedding preparations, Ezra suggests they elope. 

That’s his answer. His fix for everything. That and a charming smile.

If the seating chart is making her want to pull her hair out, he offers to get married in Vegas and not tell anyone until it’s over.

If the DJ suddenly has a conflict, it’s a sign they should run off to Rome. As opposed to a sign that he should call around, get quotes for a replacement.

Her mom helps as much as she can, but Aria spends the last two months leading up to the wedding feeling run off her feet, and like she’s preparing for their life together in an oddly solitary way. She tries not to think about Emily and Ali, the way they were constantly oohing and ahhing over Bridal Magazines, laughing at awful dresses together, trotting off to cake tastings hand in hand. Love wins.

She’s so exhausted that she winds up crying at least once a day in the week leading up to the ceremony.

“Calm down,” Ezra tells her, and there’s a bite in his voice, the tiniest hint of you’re-doing-this-to-yourself.

Mike is the one who steps up. He finds a band at the last minute. He runs interference with the caterers. And, crucially, he recruits Mona to act as Event Coordinator on the day.

Aria walks down the aisle on her father’s arm, a smile on her face as the flashbulbs go off.

As she faces the altar, as the minister goes through the ceremony and Ezra recites his vows, the line that keeps running through her head over and over is from Jane Eyre.

_“Reader, I married him.”_

Even as she repeats the words that take Ezra Fitz as her husband, she pauses to wonder who she’s writing this story for.

She banishes that line of thought aggressively. It’s nothing. Unimportant. Jitters.

\----------------------------------------------------- 

IV.

She’s having brunch with her mom at the Radley. 

“Oh,” Ella says, smiling. “Is it just the two of us?”

The waiter discreetly takes the third menu away.

“So….” Ella says, leaning over and sipping her Mimosa dramatically. “How was the honeymoon?”

“Wonderful,” Aria replies. “We have some great pictures.” 

They took selfies in front of every fountain and sculpture in Rome. Ezra was in his element, explaining the architecture, speaking Italian to the locals, splurging on fancy hotels. There’s a great shot of the two of them on a Vespa he rented to drive them through the countryside. And a beautiful picture of the gondola they rode through the Grand Canal in Venice.

Not pictured: the quick fights that kept springing up between them. When she tried to order in Italian and he accused her of flirting with the waiter. When she suggested he shouldn’t drive the Vespa back into the city after drinking at seven vineyards in one afternoon. 

They didn’t fight on the gondola ride. But when she sighed and snuggled close to him, awash in the romance of the moon and the old buildings and the singing gondolier, he kissed the top of her head and said, “You’re such a child.”

They’re just getting used to it. The whole marriage thing. It’s growing pains. The weight of commitment.

“Your father and I went to Niagara Falls the first time around, but we barely left the motel.”

Aria forces a laugh. Between the jet lag and the disagreements and all the wine they were drinking - they actually didn’t have much sex on the honeymoon. Not a big deal. The whole point of marriage is that they have the whole rest of their lives to make love.

Her mom looks at her face closely, as if she’s detected a false note in spite of all Aria’s forced cheerfulness.

“You two are okay, aren’t you? You’re happy?”

“Completely,” Aria assures her, as their food arrives.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

V.

Aria starts reading self-help books, scouring women’s magazines in the checkout line for articles on how to make your marriage work. Special recipes, tips from couples who’ve been married for sixty years, advice from the sexperts. 

“You guys make it look so easy,” she tells Emily.

“Are you kidding?” Emily laughs. “Emma wants to negotiate a cash bonus for potty training and Sophie is teething. Most days it feels like we’re tag teaming our way through a funhouse obstacle course. We’re lucky if we can keep our eyes open long enough to talk for ten minutes before we fall asleep. Nothing is easy. It’s just worth it, you know?”

“Absolutely,” Aria says, in a tone of voice she hopes is convincing.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

VI.

She doesn’t want to go back into publishing on the editorial side, doesn’t miss her tiny cubicle in Boston.

She tries her hand at freelancing, doing articles for websites, pitches for some of the glossies she’s been reading in the supermarket. Submits to _The Atlantic Monthly_ and the _New Yorker_. She sells a piece to Esquire that gets picked for the Best American Essays series.

When Veronica Hastings wins the governor’s race, and people start talking about a White House run, Aria gets tapped to write a profile for Rolling Stone. It’s a sea change - people contacting her with pitches instead of the other way around.

Ezra is blandly supportive. He’s written three more novels, but hasn’t had any luck finding a publisher. He talks a lot about his literary ambitions, modern themes and plot devices, the plight of the anti-hero. They don’t talk much about her work, because he doesn’t consider magazine articles serious writing.

Spencer is in town to represent her mother at a charity ball. Melissa Hastings is working the room with a dangerous smile, and she pauses just long enough to introduce them to a Superior Court Judge. “This is Aria Montgomery - I’m sure you’ve read some of her pieces, she’s a fabulously talented writer. And this is her husband, Ezra Fitz. He’s the owner of The Brew.”

The petulant look on Ezra’s face is a sure sign that they’re going to be leaving early.

The next morning, Ezra only makes his half of the bed. He starts talking up his old boarding school buddies, who could get him published in _The New Yorker_ in a second. If he wanted to. He keeps it up for months, a passive aggressive war of attrition.

She’s starting to understand the real secret of a happy marriage now. Sacrifice. Letting Ezra have his way. It’s the easiest path to a happy life, one where her husband might kiss her on the mouth again.

She thinks about leaving him. Wonders if he’d mind.

That night she dreams that she’s in Africa again with Jason, the night she finished her novel and he lifted her up and spun her around the room and then stayed up until dawn reading the typewritten pages. She runs her hand down the thick blonde hair on his chest and he kisses her like he wants to make the rest of the world disappear.

She wakes up crying.

She calls one of her old coworkers, a woman who runs her own literary agency now. By the time she hangs up the phone, Aria has a new job. 

Ezra is thrilled. He buys her a dozen roses and takes her out to dinner to celebrate.

“It’s a perfect move,” he enthuses. “You’ll get to work with real writers, maybe discover the next John Updike.” He grins in a way that means he’s sure the next John Updike is sitting right across from her, eating veal.

“I’m really looking forward to it,” Aria tells him. “It was time for a change.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

VII.

They’ve been married for five years when she starts to get suspicious. Ezra’s mood has been too affable. He’s pleasant, but distracted.

She borrows Emily’s car to tail him, tries to hack the password on his phone.

But he never goes anywhere except The Brew, where he spends most of his time in his office with the door closed.

It’s not until the third time she’s watching through binoculars from across the square that she realizes the new barista seems to be in there with him.

“Maybe it’s nothing,” she tells Emily, curled up on the couch in the DiLaurentis living room. “I’m probably overreacting. Or, maybe she’s making a play for him, but I’m sure he’s not - interested.”

“Aria,” Emily says, putting a gentle hand on her knee. “That girl is fourteen. She’s in some kind of gifted program at the high school. She’s supposed to be doing a small business internship with Sabrina.”

“Like I said,” Aria insists. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

VIII.

Ezra is late getting home the day of Spencer’s wedding. He walks in ten minutes before they need to leave and sits down on the couch, makes no move towards the tuxedo Aria has out of its garment bag and ready to go.

“If you’re not ready, I’m going to leave without you,” she tells him. “Where were you?”

“I was at work,” he shrugs. “I just got home. I need a little time to relax.”

“Ezra,” she says, angrily. “What were you doing there? Is there something going on between you and that Diana girl?”

“Don’t get hysterical,” he says, completely unruffled. “She’s fifteen years old.”

“I was fifteen years old!”

“You were different. We were in love.”

 _Were._ The word hits her with the force of a slap.

She grabs her purse and storms out the door. She’s sure he’ll come after her. He’ll show up at the wedding at the last moment and apologize. Or he’ll burst into the reception full of remorse, begging her to forgive him.

She stays until the orchestra is packing up to leave. Alison is loading her into an Uber, and she’s feeling fuzzy and floaty at the same time. She’s on the verge of passing out when Ali snaps her fingers loudly in front of her face.

“Aria,” she says, in her old Queen B voice. “Aria - are you sure you want to go back?” She could stay at Ali’s. They have plenty of room. Or she could go to her mom’s. Or sneak into the Hastings barn. Break in, just like old times. Sleep in a doorway somewhere.

“Aria!” Ali’s voice says again, in a tone that makes it clear she’s seconds away from making the decision for her. It would be a relief. She could do it. Decide Aria is leaving him, push her through it step by step. “Aria - what do you want to do?”

Aria slumps into the back seat of the car. “I want to go home.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

IX.

There’s no blow up fight. She doesn’t leave. Time goes on. Ezra acts more like a disinterested roommate than a husband.

She tries to work through their issues, which mostly means catering to him. Complimenting him. Setting up meetings with publishers for him.

It works well enough for him to agree to go to a Labor Day pool party at Emily and Alison’s.

He has a new digital camera that he’s playing with, taking pictures of everyone.

“Not the girls,” Alison says, firmly.

Ezra nods in agreement, but starts filming Emma in the pool the moment her back is turned.

“Oooops,” Charlotte says, as she bumps his elbow from behind, sending the camera into the water.

He turns around with a surly look on his face. Aria puts a restraining hand on his arm, but he shakes her off angrily and stalks away.

Everyone else is still outside eating watermelon when she goes inside to use the bathroom.

Emily catches up with her in the living room, sits her down on the couch. Getting older suits her, it’s as if age is filling her in, darkening the lines in her face. The crinkle in the middle of Emily’s forehead is like a familiar signpost, pointing out all the love and worry contained in her expression.

“The thing is,” Emily says gently, “We’re not comfortable with Ezra being around the girls.”

Aria averts her eyes, which settle on a picture of Jason on the mantle, sunburned and smiling. She shifts in her seat and stares at her hands.

“We love you, Aria. You’re welcome here anytime. And I know he’s your husband, and I know your relationship with him is really - complicated. But Alison doesn’t trust him, and neither do I.”

Aria nods, forces herself to speak around the lump in her throat. Emma is twelve now, she realizes. Almost a teenager. It makes Aria’s heart hurt to think about it. She seems so impossibly young.

“He’s not like that,” she insists. “We were in love.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

X.

She has a secret. 

She’s writing a screenplay. 

Quietly. Just for fun. In her spare time. 

She’s well into the third act by the time Ezra notices.

He asks what she’s working on.

“Nothing,” she says.

And it might be nothing. A goofy rom com. A meet cute followed by a few obstacles, but nothing so big it can’t be overcome by witty banter. 

A feisty pink haired food critic falls for a globe trotting substance abuse counselor. 

It’s going to have a fairy tale ending. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

XI.

She’s just finished the last of her edits. She could email the final draft to her agent, but she likes the way it looks when it’s printed out. The heft of it. The black words against the pristine white paper. She slides it into a manila envelope, has it sealed and clasped before she realizes she’ll need postage.

Ezra isn’t home. He’s spending the weekend with his brother in Connecticut. She goes into his office to look for stamps. She finds some on his desk, in a coffee mug full of pens. The mug wobbles a little. It’s not flush against the desk. Curious, she picks it up. Sees a key taped to the bottom. It still has a faint purple mark on the side, from a third period nail polish spill. It was her key. The one for their old love nest in the woods. The one she gave back to him when he sold the cabin. Right before they got married.

She holds it in the palm of her hand.

_She knows._

She walks out of the house. Wanders through the streets of Rosewood feeling dazed.

She retches in the bushes next to the church.

She’s sobbing all over Chief Maple’s desk before she even realizes she’s in the police station.

He makes some calls. Gets a warrant. Has Pam Fields come and sit with her while he goes to check it out.

He comes back with twelve boxes of evidence and a grim expression on his face. 

Aria is still crying as Pam wraps her in a hug, rocks her back and forth.

“Shhh,” Pam says, soothingly. “It’s okay. You couldn’t have known.”

Aria nods weakly, tears streaming down her face.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

XII.

She loves the Poconos. Loves living on top of a mountain. Loves drinking tea and listening to the birds on the porch of her yurt. She can breathe deeply here. Walk the wooded trails, listening to the Buddhist chants coming from inside the main building. This place is half yoga retreat, half fancy spa. It’s full of people trying to find themselves through spiritual enlightenment and sun salutations. 

She spends her time walking through the woods. Meditating by the lake. Reading. Writing for hours at a stretch, sometimes working through the night and not realizing it’s morning until the sky starts to lighten.

She’s sold two screenplays and is almost done with a novel. She’s back to magazine articles, too. Thanks to the Vanderwaal business empire, she’s sold sixteen different profiles of Hanna this year. Plus the big Hastings dynasty piece in Time.

She’s teaching an online class on self-publishing and new media. She goes to therapy three times a week. She feels lighter than she has in years. Like she’s free. Like the world is absolutely bursting with potential.

Four years go by, years that she sometimes thinks of in high school terms. Her freshman year of life without Ezra. Her sophomore year of life beyond what he did. She has an affair with a yogi. Her junior year of life on her own terms. One of her screenplays is nominated for a Golden Globe. She feels like she’s graduated with flying colors. She’s forty one years old.

Emily comes to visit. They sit on Aria’s porch, drinking wine under the stars. Emma is looking at colleges, she might ask Aria for a recommendation to Brown.

“God,” Aria says. “Who knows where the time goes?”

“Exactly,” Emily says. 

They’re quiet for a long stretch of time.

“Do you ever get lonely?” Emily asks, gently.

Aria sloshes the wine around in her glass. 

“No,” she says. “Not really.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

XIII.

Jason is wrestling a Christmas tree into place in the middle of the living room.

“Honey,” Aria laughs. “It’s too big. We won’t be able to see each other.”

“Huh,” he says, his face poking around the branches. “Maybe in the corner, then.”

“They’ll be here any minute,” she points out, helping him drag it into its new location.

Alison and Emily are coming over to help decorate. Jason is over the moon about hosting the big holiday celebration this year. He rented a Santa suit and beard, had to be talked out of a Twelve Days of Christmas theme after he'd already lined up turtle doves and a partridge.

“Sorry we’re late,” Alison says, as they come in. “I wanted to bring Sophie, but she’s sleeping fourteen hours a day. I want to murder whoever invented med school.”

Two identical twin boys in pointed elf hats dart in the door just ahead of Emily and start chasing each other around the living room. Jason scoops both of them up, one under each arm, and spins them around by way of a greeting.

“We’re giving Emma a break,” Emily explains. “She and Dave wanted to finish shopping and eat somewhere with tablecloths.”

“Like you two need an excuse to spend the day with the grandkids,” Aria teases. She’s used to Jason’s hair being more silver than blonde, to Emily wearing glasses that are low key bifocals, to Mona Vanderwaal having a trophy wife who’s twenty-three -- but the idea of Alison as a grandmother is still a bit of an adjustment.

She watches Emily and little Wayne deftly stringing lights, Jason lifting Jess onto his shoulders to hang an ornament from the top branches.

“Charlotte called last night,” Alison tells her, as they hang stockings on the mantle. “Jason asked her to do fireworks.”

Aria shakes her head. "I had to get Spencer to veto the reindeer petting zoo."

"She and Hanna and the boys are coming on Wednesday?"

Aria smiles. “It’s going to be a full house.” Christmas dinner for twenty five of their nearest and dearest. Generations of her friends and family, coming together to celebrate the holidays.

“We’re lucky,” Alison says, like she can still read Aria’s mind.

“We are,” Aria agrees. Somehow they’ve ended up here. One huge happy family. A warm house that smells like vegan gingerbread. 

“Sometimes,” she tells Alison. “I almost miss the crazy drama.”

Alison laughs, a loud throaty chuckle. 

“Liar.”


End file.
